


Thunder In Your Thoughts

by bar_wench



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ADHD, AU, Autistic Castiel (Supernatural), Bisexual Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Goes to Stanford with Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Has ADHD, Destiel - Freeform, Garage, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Neurodiversity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:48:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24917107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bar_wench/pseuds/bar_wench
Summary: What would life be like for the Winchester brothers had they both given up hunting and Dean had left with Sam when he went to Stanford? It's especially hard for Dean to reintegrate with 'normal' people, but he doesn't know why. Everything seems to come so easily for Sammy, like he was made for a normal apple pie life, but Dean feels like he doesn't quite fit. His brain seems to work differently, like he's on another wavelength. He finds himself growing restless and becoming reckless, anything to feel a rush. That is until he meets Cas, who also seems like he doesn't fit in. Could they be the missing pieces in each other's lives?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Thunder In Your Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :) As someone with ADHD, I really relate to Dean, who in my opinion definitely has it. I hope you like it, any feedback is really appreciated, enjoy!
> 
> (Just a thought, I'm a write-as-you-go kinda gal, with not much of a plan, so I'll be tagging as I go. If it comes to it, I'll add warnings etc)

A bead of sweat formed at my hairline, slowly gathered traction, and dripped down the back of my neck, the result of hard work and a record breaking hot day. Bent over the engine of a beautiful old Buick Riviera ‘65, my mind was quiet as my hands worked, knowing what to do without even having to spare a thought to it. My job gave me peace, if only for a few hours out of the day; the constant whirring in my brain would slow to a quiet, lolling pace, and it was a relief. The routine gave me structure to my day, a plan to stick to. At least it kept me out of trouble for a few hours.  
A tap on my shoulder had me standing to attention, arms by my sides, almost immediately.  
“Dean, it’s me, chill.” My little brother had to shout to be heard over the noise of the garage. I breathed a sigh of relief, wiping my oily hands down the front of my already dirt-streaked t-shirt.  
“Hey Sammy,” I replied, turning around to face him. Our father’s military training had never left me, not even when we escaped to California together. 

When Sam had announced that he was leaving, that he had gotten a full ride scholarship to Stanford, it had been messy. Dad went ballistic, a lamp got broken, harsh words were thrown around carelessly, the two of them were at each other's throats; and I was stuck in the middle of it. I loved hunting, the thrill of it, the adrenaline coursing through my veins, the risk, the unknown, the way I could give myself over to my instincts. But I loved my little brother even more, more than anything. My love for him was greater than my fear of my father. So when dad yelled at him that if he walked away, if he went through that door, he wasn’t welcome back, I followed him. At first dad was confused, he didn’t realise what I was doing. He thought I was just going after Sam to try and talk some sense into him. It wasn’t until I picked up my duffel and whispered a broken apology to the man that had raised me that he realised what was happening. His two sons, his flesh and blood, were abandoning him. It killed me to do it, but not going with Sammy, letting him go out into the world alone and defenceless, that would have truly been the end of me. So I went after him, snatched his bus ticket out of his hand and dragged his scrawny ass into the impala. I still feel guilty for letting our father down, but I don’t regret going with Sam. Life may no longer be as dangerously exciting, but there could be peace in mundane tasks. 

“It’s 5 o’clock, you coming?” He pointed over his shoulder at baby, driver’s side door open. Looking back at him, I blinked slowly, incredulously.  
“Have you been driving my car?” I looked at him, irritated.  
“Dude, come on, you let me drive it all the time,” he grinned, not even slightly remorseful.  
“Not without my consent!” I snatched the keys from his hand and marched over to inspect her, bending low over the hood and running my hands along the black metal lovingly, inspecting for any sign of potential damage, a dent, a scratch, a speck of dust marring the sleek exterior of my pride and joy.  
“Get a room,” Sam muttered, rolling his eyes as he clambered into the passenger seat.  
“If I find any of your trash in my car, you’re a dead man,” I tried to sound menacing as I waved goodbye to the lads who were just finishing up their days work as well. “And if you’ve been listening to your godawful music, I swear, I might just disown you.”  
“Vince Vincente is a talented guy,” he said defensively.  
“It’s hair rock Sammy, hair rock.” I shuddered for dramatic effect.  
I taunted my younger brother mercilessly, but only because it was my job. What kind of big brother was I if I didn’t take every opportunity to make things difficult for him? I was toughening him up. In reality, I relished these moments. These normal, everyday moments. We’d seen the horrors this world had to offer, and though we’d escaped from that life, we could never escape from the truth, that we knew what was out there. It felt like no matter how long it’d been since we’d face to face with a wendigo or a vamp, we could never shake that feeling of paranoia, like we’d forever be looking over our shoulders. We’d stopped hunting those things, but they never stop hunting you. We could feel the tension in the air sometimes, when we both knew we were thinking the same things, sharing the same heightened senses and awareness, but we refused to talk about it. That part of our lives was over now. So any chance to just be normal, to just be two brothers with a really fucking nice car, and I’d grab it and hold onto it for as long as I could. 

Sam turned the key in the door of our apartment and I impatiently kicked it open, the chips in the dark green paint evidence that I did this often.  
“You couldn’t wait two seconds,” I heard him whisper to himself, and despite having my back to him, I knew he was shaking his head at me. We were polar opposites, and I think that was why we got on so well; we balanced each other out, for the most part (sometimes our differences resulted in slight disagreements, to put it nicely). That, and the fact that nobody else around us shared our unique life experiences. It was hard to keep up the facade of ignorance sometimes, to see people laugh at ‘ridiculous’ horror films and wanting desperately to go up to them and shake them, to tell them it’s not ridiculous in the slightest, that there’s nothing funny or sexy about vampires and werewolves. We can’t tell anyone, can’t warn them of what lurks in the shadows. Even if it meant that they could protect themselves, it would scar them and leave them constantly vigilant and terrified of the night, of the dark hours when creatures skulk in the shadows and steal away your children. That would be the good reaction. The bad reaction would see me and Sam locked in padded cells and called crazy. Maybe we were. A lifetime of facing monsters, a childhood without reassurance that there’s nothing under the bed, it’ll do it to you alright. Knock a couple of screws loose. Out of the two of us, I’m definitely the worst. Sam jokes about getting me tested. I laugh with him, but inside, part of me agrees. I look at him, at how he functions, at how successful he’s becoming, and I wonder what’s wrong with me. I can never put my finger on it, but I know that something isn’t quite right with me. It’s like I see everyone else, and no matter how hard I try, I’m always just out of reach, but what of, I’m still unsure. I don’t know what I’m missing, but I know that I never had it to begin with.  
I dropped the brown paper take out bags on the kitchen table and greedily grabbed a couple of burgers.  
“Two?” Sam raised his eyebrows at me, reaching for his salad. Him and his rabbit food, I would never understand the obsession. Why eat grass when you could be happily chowing down on soft buns and a greasy patty? Something about cholesterol was his usual answer. He’s an old man having a mid-life crisis stuck in the body of a guy in his twenties, who, thanks to our rigorous training, is fitter than most. He really didn’t need to be worrying about cholesterol. The kid could eat a stick of butter and still run a marathon, in record time no doubt.  
“Yes, two,” I frowned and used my free hand to sweep my food closer to me across the table. “I work hard, back breaking labour, killing myself with those long hours, all to provide for us, you ungrateful bitch, you have no idea-” I could have gone on had I not been interrupted.  
“Okay, okay, I get it, you’re hungry,” he held his hands up in defeat. I grinned back him, my mouth full of burger. He pulled a face at my less than brilliant table manners but didn’t say anything else. Picking up his plastic box of green and his pathetic little plastic fork, he got up and marched over to the couch, sitting down and flicking the TV on, suddenly engrossed in one of his dumb documentaries. I watched him spear a sad little leaf and happily pop it in his mouth before getting up myself and sliding into the space next to him. I winked mischievously at him, throwing my legs up onto the coffee table with a small crash, and ignored the newspaper that my intruding feet had knocked on the floor. “Really?” He looked exasperated, giving up and trying to just ignore me. Every now and then, I’d see his eyes flick over to me without turning his head, a slight look of disgust marring his expression as I loudly slurped the grease from my dirty fingers.  
It’s the small things in life that bring you joy.


End file.
